Cruel
by Simon
Summary: Harry slowely goes insane... and Simon sucks at typing summaries ^^;;


EDIT! This was written when I was depressed, and I'm not continueing it anymore. But I still kind of like it, so I'm not deleting it. Please don't ask for sequels.  
  
None of this is mine, except maybe the non-existant plot. It's all owned by J.K. Rowling. Spoilers for all four books I think. I want the fifth book ;_;  
  
My english probably has spelling errors I don't notice because I'm dutch. I read the books in english, so if I make mistakes in names, etc., I have no excuse. If it bothers you, please tell me so I can make it better.  
  
This is a bit confusing I think... I don't get it myself... It's the prologue, but it's actually the epilogue and I don't even know if I'll continue writing this.  
  
Cruel prologue  
  
Have you ever noticed how alone you can be in a room full of people? I turn my head to the right to look at the game of chess Ron and Hermione are playing. It feels odd in my neck, like I'm some sort of robot. I'm pretty sure my friends would hear the 'creeeeeeeak' if they wouldn't be so into their game. I take of my glasses and suddenly the world seems much bigger. Blurryer. Is that even a word? I blink a few times and look around. My neck feels normal again but somehow I seem to lack emotions. Robot Harry. There are a lot of blond people here but not as shockingly blond as he was. Sometimes I think I see him in a corner, or standing in the Quidditch pitch. I even ran off in the middle of Transfiguration once because I thought I heard him in the cupboard. Our cupboard. Heh, here I am slowely losing my mind and nobody notices.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Hermione. Did you notice? Did you notice your best friend is slowely going insane? She gives me a worried look. She noticed. Did she? Now Ron's looking at me too. His face is a skin colored blob with red hair and I put on my glasses again.  
  
"Do you want to play, Harry?" Hermione asks, while she touches my arm with her fingertips. I see they finished their game and to my surprise Hermione is the one who won. Ofcourse she's the one who won. Ron must have taught her how to play real chess while I was gone. I don't answer her question, just look at her dully. I'm good at looking at people dully, I know that. That's what he told me. I turn away from them and face the fire. Next to me I hear Hermione make a sort of choking sound. Somebody grabs me at the shoulders and turns me around to face my friends again. Ron. My skin colored blob with red hair. I can make out his face now. My eyes slide over his freckles, his long nose, worried blue eyes, his cheekbones, his jaw, his mouth. He needs a shave.  
  
"Damn it Harry," he almost whispers, "why aren't you talking to us?"  
  
Silly Ron. Haven't you noticed I'm not talking to the entire world? I shake his hands off my shoulders and make my way up to the dorm. Behind me I hear Hermione softly sobbing, Ron comforting her. They don't need me anymore. I let myself fall face forward on the bed. My glasses are hurting me so I take them off and roll over. Who needs me now? I've lived up to their expectations. I'm the Boy who lived once again. I remember the day I lived for the second time. I died that day. Not physicly ofcourse, or else I wouldn't be here. Maybe I'm not even here. Maybe I'm a ghost and nobody has seen it yet. I raise my right hand so I can look at it. There's a long scar on it which I hide with my fingers. The day I did that... It was the day after the day I lived for the second time, when I noticed I was still alive. I took that pretty knife of his and killed myself. Slowely. I wanted to hurt as much as he did, so I didn't cut my wrists. I cut my hands. It was going too slow and when they came they automaticly assumed that it was a wound from the fight. They tended to it. I stretch my fingers and see the scar has disappeared. It's only visable when I want it to be. And nobody else can see it.  
  
***  
  
I wake up. Someone has pulled the curtains around my bed shut. Ron I suppose. He feels like he needs to take care of me. My thought patterns get interrupted by a stab in my chest area. I hear my heartbeat in my ears, memories cloud my vision.  
  
"I need you to take care of me."  
  
He slowely raised his left eyebrow, and I envied him once again because he could pull up one and I couldn't. He didn't reply, just lowered himself so he was lying entirely on top of me again and burried his face in my neck. Did he chuckle? I don't know. I put my arms around him, closed my eyes. It hurt and I wanted to hurt him so I dug my fingernails in his back. He didn't seem to mind. He sighed, kissed my ear, then whispered he'd take care of me real good.  
  
Damn, am I crying now? Why? He's dead and he deserved it for betraying me. He's dead. And I contemplate suicide again. 


End file.
